


the war is over (and we are beginning)

by talkabout



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Captain America, Captain America (All Media Types) - Freeform, Childhood Friends, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Snapshots, canon-typical angst, mushy husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-30 00:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19842004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkabout/pseuds/talkabout
Summary: best friends since childhood, lucas wong and doyoung kim were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.





	the war is over (and we are beginning)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hutastan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutastan/gifts).



> this was meant to be carol's birthday gift but i messed up lolz
> 
> anyways, happy belated birthday carolos!! this is something you've cooked up and that i said i'd write forever ago, but here it is. i hope you like it, peidinho. you're the bestest person i know even though you didn't remember my ao3 user.
> 
> for the general public, this is absolute dolulu madness!!! have fun.
> 
> title is from stars's "in our bedroom after the war"
> 
> not beta-ed because go wild i guess. sorry for the typos!!

Sometimes, when Lucas's brain dares to dream– no, when Lucas's brain  _ fights _ to dream, he dreams of a bright-eyed boy from Brooklyn.

It's weird, he thinks, because he doesn't know if he's real or not, doesn't know if he's a mere product of his mind desperately trying to grasp onto something remotely human for him – they've told him before,  _ you're a machine, nothing but a weapon, _ and so it goes –, but the boy from Brooklyn has the brightest, biggest smile he's ever seen, and Lucas holds onto that until the next time they decide to wipe his brain out. When that happens, and it always does, he'll just find himself another dream to hold onto, but until then– 

"The man on the bridge," he tries. His voice sounds weird, heavy on his tongue, they expect him to be as silent as a shadow all the time. "Who was he?"

The man checking up on his arm snorts. It makes Lucas want to push him away, but he stays still. The blonde, old man sitting in front of him speaks up: "You met him earlier this week in another assignment."

No, that's not true. Lucas– Lucas  _ knows _ him, he knows–

"Your work has been a gift to mankind," says the man. He's been saying something, but Lucas didn't listen. "You've shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time."

He swallows dry. The lights are too strong on his eyes, his chest feels  _ heavy– _ "But I knew him."

The boy from Brooklyn is older than him. He's older and smarter, he's got a loud laughter and he's got a mouth of his own, this one. Something at the back of Lucas's mind tells him he gets in trouble too much, and that Lucas doesn't like it. He seems so real, the boy from Brooklyn, with hands like these.

But he is so fragile. He's got asthma, and he's smaller than boys his age, and Lucas is afraid to hurt him when they so as much as kiss–

"I had him on the ropes."

Lucas snorts. "You sure did," he says, as he presses an alcohol-soaked cotton to the bridge of Doyoung's nose, who winces. 

They've had this conversation before, in an alley somewhere, and then a billion times before that. They'll probably have this conversation for many, many years, either until Doyoung finally acknowledges his size and strength or when– 

"Cas," he says, looking up at him. He has this face on that tells Lucas he's either cooking up something extremely smart or something extremely stupid to say, so he braces himself. But Doyoung's fingers close around the fabric of his shirt, his knee pressing to Lucas's thigh from where he's sitting on the closed toilet. "Are you too mad at me?"

"No," he replies, which is true. Mad, but not too mad. Lucas throws the cotton on the sink, to deal with later, and cups his face with both hands. "You have to stop picking up fights like that. Maybe pick someone your size."

Doyoung purses his lips. It's not really bad this time, but his skin feels hot against Lucas's hands, so he drops them to his shoulders. "They rejected me again," Doyoung says.

"Who?"

"Them. The army. I just-- I just want to be useful."

Lucas wants to tell him: you can't be useful if you're dead. And his heart feels heavy, heavy, because he hasn't told him he's leaving soon, too soon, what is he going to do when Lucas isn't around then. Suddenly three years younger means nothing to him, Lucas has someone to  _ care _ for, but Doyoung's eyes are sad, so he pulls him back to their tiny kitchen and says: "Can't be useful with an empty tummy, can you?"

The bullet case is empty, empty, empty, it's that goddamn  _ Russian _ again, with the red hair, his name sounds like victory– and Lucas watches as he runs away, not bothering to follow, he's got his eyes somewhere else, in someone else. 

The bullet case is empty, empty, empty, but he's got this arm, no need for a gun, he intercepts that shiny shield with no difficult, throws it somewhere the man won't find it. Lucas's got this arm, and a knife, and the fight happens so quick that he almost doesn't notice – time flows differently, he figures, when you're as fast as lightning –, but this man is so strong, he grabs at the base of his mask and pulls, with enough force to send Lucas in the air. He–

"Lucas?"

That sounds funny when he says it, and then it doesn't. The man takes a step forward, his eyes look so big, and Lucas doesn't  _ know _ who that is, why does it feel like he should, and it  _ angers _ him. 

"Who the hell is Lucas?"

There's a dream in which the boy from Brooklyn looks different. Taller. Broader. Healthier. It brings something out of Lucas's chest that echoes pride, but it could also be strangeness, but it could also be _longing_ –

"Doyoung?"

The name slips out of his memory like it was always supposed to be there. Lucas's brain savors that. Doyoung.  _ Doyoung Doyoung Doyoung _ . That's his name, of course it is, how could he have ever forgotten. And then Doyoung grabs his shoulders, his face, with a dumb smile.

"I thought you were dead," he says, incredulous. Maybe Lucas was supposed to be dead. His brain tells him that. He was supposed to be dead but Doyoung will always bring him back, with his dog tags around his neck like that.

"I thought you were smaller," says the memory. Doyoung laughs. The sound echoes in his mind until Lucas wakes up alone.

So that's the thing. He's a machine. He's a  _ weapon _ . He shoves Lucas Wong somewhere at the back of his mind and becomes something else entirely different, he's  _ turned _ into something else entirely different, something Doyoung wouldn't like if he knew, something made to destroy might captains and–

"You're my friend."

"You're my mission!"

"Then finish it," Doyoung lets out a sigh. "'Cause I'm with you 'till--"

His childhood comes to him one night.

It looks like feeding stray dogs in the streets, holding Doyoung's hands when they cross the street, his mother and her beautiful eyes and her saying  _ us immigrants stick together,  _ and how Lucas dreamed of flying. A plane, you see. He'd tell Doyoung, he'd tell  _ Doie _ this, and he'd draw a million of drawings of Lucas piloting a plane, each one prettier than the last.

And growing up tastes like his three younger siblings wearing his clothes, kissing Yuqi on the town's fair once, riding a bicycle with Doie's arms around his neck, Doie with braces on his teeth, Doie putting newspapers on his shoes, Doie and a bloody nose and how hot his hands felt when Lucas pulled him from the ground, Doie and a soft mouth for him to kiss, Doie and–

He doesn't know why he does that, but he pulls his mission/lover/?????'s body from the water and leaves him on the shore, he wants to reach down and touch Doyoung's face and tell him  _ my name is Lucas Wong, I've known you all my life, you used to put newspapers on your shoes, you're not my mission, you're my-- _

But he doesn't. Hell, he doesn't do that. He walks away.

"Just five more minutes," Doyoung asks, quietly, as eloquently as he can with a pencil on his mouth while he sketches with another. "Stay still for five more minutes, Cas."

Lucas doesn't move, but his eyes dart to the clock on the wall and he sighs. "We're going to be late, you punk," he says. His new coat is on the hanger by the door and he can't wait to get inside it, baby, can't wait to see the  _ future– _ "You know I promised Yuqi I'd take her to meet that girl. I don't want to ruin her date!"

_ "Three _ more minutes," Doyoung insists, and Lucas rolls his eyes.

He doesn't mind modeling. Not at all. Not when he can watch Doyoung staining his fingers with charcoal, ripping page after page of his sketchbook after finishing yet another drawing of Lucas – Doyoung likes him so much! He's so lucky –, and then maybe tease him about it a little bit. But they've got business tonight, they've got a date with the future, goddamn it! The very thought of Qian Kun's inventions has his sighing dreamily.

"It's done," Doyoung announces, getting up from his spot on the floor. Lucas has been thinking of buying him a proper table and chair before he– "This better be good, nerd, or else I'm ditching you to spend time with the girls."

Lucas is laughing when he gets up from the edge of the bed and holds Doyoung's face between his hands, pulling him into a kiss. 

The memory is so good, so real he can almost taste it.

He notices the red-haired spy following him before he notices Lucas noticed him, and therefore--

"I'm sorry I shot you that one time," he says quietly, pressing his back against one of the bookcases in this store. He liked to read when he was younger, when he was himself, but everything is just so different now. 

"You ruined my summer body," the other replies, making himself seen at that one particular corner, and his hand ghosts over the spot on his hip where Lucas's bullet had gone right through. He has a very soft face for someone so deadly, Lucas thinks, maybe it's the pointy ears. 

He laughs, surprisingly, he hasn't done that in a long time. "I hardly doubt it."

The red-haired shrugs. He hands him a copy of the book he's been trying to find. "A classic is a classic," he says. "You don't have to hide forever, Lucas. We could protect you, you know, at S.H.I.E.L.D."

He laughs again, but this time no sound comes out: "Your definition of protection sounds a lot like imprisoning to me. Besides--" he shrugs, looking back at the book. The Great Gatsby. He used to like that, a long time ago. "I don't need protection. I need--"

"Help? We can help you."

Lucas doesn't reply that. He looks at him: "I know why they call you Black Widow. I know why they sent you rather than--"

He doesn't finish the sentence. And the other says: "Doyoung did tell me you're very smart," and Lucas looks away. Someone walks right past through them as if they weren't even there, which is good, which is different, which is preferable. He likes it. "He also told me you're a bit too much on the stubborn side."

"Doyoung--" he replies, and it sounds so weird and different on his tongue, a name he hasn't spoken out loud in years. He savors it, then. "-- says a lot of things. He's got a mouth. But it doesn't matter what you say… ?"

The red-haired purses his lips. "Sicheng."

"I'm not going back, Sicheng," he concludes. He should say more. But he doesn't. And when he turns to pay for his book, Sicheng is long gone.

He thinks it's fitting. Kind of crazy, yes, but fitting. Lucas's known this for the entirety of his life, that people like Doyoung were made for greatness, that people like Doyoung were made to help others, inspire others, that people like Doyoung–

"What are you looking at," he asks over breakfast. Breakfast is a disgusting little ration of food in a can, but Lucas would take this over nothing, so he's good. And Doyoung stares at him from the other side of the table, knocking his boots against Lucas's, and he replies: 

"You."

" _ Lucas _ ,"

"What!" he smiles. "I was just wondering if your suit is a success with kids."

Doyoung makes a face, embarrassed, and he reaches for the jar of juice a little bit to the left and almost knocks it over. He's not used to his size, Lucas notices, and it makes something to his heart. Doyoung could be 15ft tall and he'd still be his Doie at the end of the day.

"'Cause, you know," he continues. "When all of this is over, if you want to move onto showbusiness, I'd follow you."

Snorting, Doyoung pushes a glass of juice in his direction. "The superhero and the clown?"

"The superhero and his charming sidekick. I can ever wear a mask!"

"And you'd do that because… ?"

"Come on, Doie," he says, with an easy smile. "You know I'm with you 'till the end of the line."

"Don't do this," Lucas begs him. It feels so weird on his tongue, to say things out loud and to have people  _ listening _ , but he's slowly getting used to it. "Don't do this to yourself. Just leave."

"Not without you," Doyoung replies quietly. He's got a peach in between his hand that bruise too easily in Lucas's, and he turns it around and around in his fingers and Lucas follows the way its skin remains in perfect condition. He wants to be that. He doesn't know what he's talking about, but he wants it. "Well, I– I would like you to come with me, Cas. Somewhere nice. Somewhere peaceful. If you-- want to, that is. But I'd like you to come. I would love it."

Lucas's heart beats loud inside his ribcage, so loud he can hear it. He looks down at his hand, the one that's real, and he grabs a peach as well, just to avoid looking at him. He likes Bucharest. He likes his tiny, dirty apartment and he likes this city, he likes speaking something that feels good on his tongue, he likes saying things like  _ bună dimineața _ , like  _ mersi _ . He's particularly fond of thanking people after so many years of taking, taking, taking.

And he likes it here. He doesn't like it when he thinks of what he could do to Doyoung if he isn't careful enough. 

"I would not bring peace to you if I did that, Cap. Of all things, I'd make it difficult."

"I--" Doyoung sighs. When he takes one step closer, Lucas takes two steps far, and he stops immediately. "If you come with me, there's no Captain. I'll resign. I'll fake my own death, even. So we'll both be safe and away from this. I pro--"

Lucas shakes his head. The peach between his fingers bleeds softly, the juice dripping down his hand, he leaves the money for it on the counter and turns to leave. "Goodbye, Doyoung."

_ Seventy years, _ he writes it down in the notebook he keeps on his bedside table,  _ seventy years and he hasn't changed a bit. _ And neither did Lucas's heart, despite it all.

"You're stepping on my toes,"

Lucas lets out a sigh. "You weren't this big before, let me get used to it. When we were younger, you used to--"

"Don't."

"You used to step on my feet and I'd dance you like that on your mother's living room," he snorts. "It was very different from this tent in the middle of nowhere, wasn't it, Doie?"

Doyoung smiles at him. Smiles  _ at _ him, not up to him like he used to do. They're the same height now, his shoulders suddenly fit inside his shirts and they're so strong, he's so strong, stronger and healthier than– Lucas shakes his head, hands tightening their grasp around Doyoung's waste as they silently dance around the tent. 

It's a limited space, of course, but it's big enough for this. Props to Doyoung for being  _ Captain Awesome _ or whatever it is that they call Lucas's childhood best friend now, for the fact that he gets a tent of his own and Lucas gets to dance with him to a song he mutters under his breath:  _ oh, kiss me once and kiss me twice, then kiss me once again… _

"Very different, indeed," Doyoung says at last. "But you're still a jerk,  _ jerk _ ." 

"And you're still a punk,  _ punk _ ." 

He doesn't hear the end of it. Like they also used to do, Doyoung grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss. Soft and daring, like it always is with him, and Lucas's heart  _ longs _ in this kitchenette in Bucharest, seventy years later.

Lucas used to be bright, he thinks. 

He fishes this out of his memories one particular day while he walks alongside a river somewhere. He used to be bright and good, like mothers in the neighbourhood liked him, like  _ his _ mother liked him, like girls liked him, like Doyoung liked him. He remembers being kind and generous and he remembers picking his siblings up at school. He remembers kissing Doyoung on the cheek softly as he leaning over his journal, doodling, and then Lucas would turn the kettle on and brew them some tea. He'd drink his with lemon and honey. He'd walk barefoot through their tiny apartment and he'd smile all the time, so much that Doyoung would look at him and ask what are you smiling for, for Christ's sake, and Lucas had never needed a reason too. He just smiled bright.

Something inside him stirs awake. He wants to be bright and good still.

He gets rid of the arm on a Thursday morning. 

It's sketchy business, of course, he finds this Jungwoo guy in Korea and he speaks all difficult, all technical, but Lucas manages to find himself a translator and ask him what he wants: to be rid of this and this and that, and his translator is this kid named Mark Lee that has eyes the size of the moon and he nearly faints in the middle of the process, but Lucas stays put. He's been through worse. 

He then makes Mark drive him to somewhere he can get rid of that garbage, somewhere no one else can find it, and it's only when they're driving back to Seoul that Mark takes one sheepish look at him and says: 

"Excuse me, sir," and Lucas scoffs at that. "But did you serve? Like, in the army?"

"Yes, I did," he replies a little vaguely. He doesn't remember much of it, but he remembers his troop, and he remembers following Doyoung everywhere, and he remembers-- he remembers  _ falling _ . "But you weren't born back then."

Mark lets out a laugh. Lucas hasn't made someone laugh in-- he doesn't even  _ know _ . He stores that in his mind for later. 

"No, it's just that--" he shakes his head. "It's crazy, but I think I saw you in a picture back at my grandfather's house. I mean, you can't be  _ that _ old, right? Even if you're… well-preserved. With all due respect."

This time, it's Lucas who laughs. It bursts through him unexpectedly and even Mark widens his eyes, but then they're laughing together until Lucas shakes his head. "Well, that must've been  _ my _ grandfather," he lies, because he knows it's him. He took one look at this kid and he knew that destiny brought him a reminiscent of a Howling Commando. And Mark laughs again, pleased with his answer, it sounds just like another memory.

Suddenly, Lucas thinks of telling Doyoung this. He stores the moment in his mind to write down later. Maybe–

The science fair is bright, bright, bright, and Lucas is drawn to those lights like a moth drawn to a flame. He holds Yuqi's hand tighter and looks back at where Doyoung is with her date, a girl from school, and suddenly is eager for them to follow him onto the next attraction.

He wants to see flying cars, he wants to see all those colors and look back at Doyoung and see them reflecting in his eyes–

"Huh?" he turns around, frowning. "Ladies, where's Doyoung?"

Lucas finds him on the army's booth, rubbing a knuckle against his eye with his report card on the other hand. He doesn't need to ask, and Doyoung doesn't need to say it, Lucas gently cups his face for a second before he whispers: "I leave next week."

"Do you think I did not know, when you're as subtle as an elephant in a porcelain shop," replies Doyoung, in a quiet tone. He scratches his neck awkwardly and then punches him lightly on the chest. "Punch some nazis for me."

Lucas laughs: "And you don't do anything stupid until I come back."

Making a face, Doyoung shakes his head. 

"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you." 

"Good morning," Lucas says, phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder. The sun is hot on his back, and his bag feels too heavy. It's more psychological than real to say so. "I would like to speak with Doyoung Kim? Is this-- is this his number still? It's-- it's Lucas."

"Oh, my God," says a high pitched voice on the other side of the line. "Yuta, you owe me a hundred and twelve bucks!"

A voice calls at the distance: "You're the richest here, Chenle, why would you even join this bet--"

Lucas frowns. Maybe he called the wrong number. He's about to hang up when a familiar voice says: "Lucas?"

"Hello," he replies weakly.

"I--" Doyoung takes a deep breath. Lucas pictures his expression softening, like it always used to be with him, and it's enough to make something to his heart. "Do you-- how are you?"

He takes a while to reply. A kid on the other side of the street sends a soccer ball straight to the cabin he's inside, and he even lets out a chuckle. It makes Doyoung let out a surprised sound. "I'm-- better now," he replies carefully. "I was wondering if it was still alright for me to call you."

"Of course it is. You can call me whenever, that's why I left my number with you."

" _ Doyoung _ ," he laughs. "You know that's not what I meant."

"I was just making small talk,  _ Lucas _ . Where are you?"

"Mexico. It was the closest thing."

"Closest to what?"

He nearly backs out. He thinks I'm going to go back to Bucharest and never bother him again, but then Lucas takes a deep breath and replies: "To where you can pick me up. If you want to, that is."

There's a split second in which he thinks Doyoung is going to-- he doesn't even know. He's just scared of it. And then Doyoung lets out an embarrassed laugh. "I mean, Qian tracked your call and booked an airplane already..."

"Qian?  _ Kun _ ?"

"No, his grandkid, can you believe that," Doyoung sighs. "His name is Chenle. He's a pain in my butt. He calls me old man and makes references that I don't get. And he curses a  _ lot _ ."

"Sounds painful. Listen, do I--"

"Just stay where you are," and then Doyoung adds, softly, and a low lower than before: "I'll meet you soon, Cas."

He's never seen this much snow before. Not even in the worst winters, when Doyoung would catch the harshest colds and he'd press his feet to Lucas's calves and he wouldn't sleep for days, watching as Doyoung slept, afraid that this time the weather would get him. But it's different now, Lucas thinks as he follows Doyoung up on the train's roof, the wind feeling harsh on his face.

This time, Doyoung doesn't look like the wind could catch him if he wasn't careful enough. Not when he's built like this, not when he has that shield, and Lucas would already follow him anywhere ever since they were little kids, but right now he just wants to be  _ beside _ him--

"I had him on the ropes," he says when Doyoung dislodges his shield from the man's chest plate, and Lucas wants to shoot again just to make sure, but Doyoung touches his arm.

"I know you did," he replies. He looks at the hole on the side of the train, a result of the man's strangest gun, and Lucas knows he's thinking  _ what if someone fell, _ because that's just Doyoung. "How about we get the hell out of here, huh?"

He doesn't see it when it happens. Lucas watches in slow motion as the man gets up, of course he does, he should've shot him again and he raises his strange gun and then Doyoung places himself in front of him. He doesn't see it when he happens, he just feels it, the impact throws him onto all that icy cold whiteness, and the last thing he sees-

Doyoung's smile is the size of the moon. 

It's always been like that, Lucas's memories told him, but he has to check, he raises his hand and cups his face softly, and he lets out a laugh so loud that Doyoung looks panicked. "Is there something on my face?" he asks.

"Loosen up, old man," Lucas replies instead, and he does, reaching for his backpack.

"Let me carry this for you. Tell me, old man #2, is your Spanish good… ?"

"It's just a casual lunch, I promise. It's going to be great."

Lucas makes a face. His reflection in the mirror is something he's not used to see – short hair, clean face, and Doyoung holding back a smile behind him in a goofy way. Goofy. That's what he is. Goofy, and a superhero. Lucas didn't know things like that were possible, but he's learned to expect the unexpected with Doyoung.

"I could've written a thank you note," he replies, under his breath, smoothing the fabric of his shirt with a hand. "But you had to--"

"They want to meet you! Properly, that is. I know you've met Sicheng and Chenle earlier, but Yuta, Jaehyun, and Johnny are just as great."

Lucas nods. He looks back at where Doyoung is leaning against the window, arms crossed, and the city unveils behind him. He didn't expect to be here, of all things – New York once more, can you imagine that? Except that this isn't their ratty apartment in Brooklyn, but the tallest building Lucas has ever stepped on, and there's that rich kid somewhere whose name is on everything. And there's also, well, all the people who had been there with Doyoung when Lucas wasn't, when Lucas wasn't himself, and he knows all about them because Doyoung has told them everything but--

"Hey," the latter says. Lucas didn't notice him crossing the room, and his hand delicately brushes over his shoulder. "This is going to be fine. We can just leave earlier if you want to."

The casual lunch is, against all odds, a casual lunch. He sits in a diner, pressed up to Doyoung in a booth big enough for ten, and he laughs the hardest when everyone tries to lift this guy Johnny's magical hammer – "With all due respect, what kind of god is called Johnny?" "You would not know the proper pronunciation of my real name, friend," –, and he eats fries and even manages to get a grin out of Black Widow's mouth. 

His hair is now striking blond, and it suits him. When Lucas tells him that, Sicheng glares at him.

The rich kid – Lucas's learned that he is just as brilliant as his grandfather was, for someone so young – takes a sip of his milkshake and elbows the archer's ribs just to be annoying. The latter name is Yuta… ? Lucas didn't follow. The kid says: "And then Spider-Man kept calling me for a whole month, even though I didn't have anything for him to do! That kid is just eager to join us."

"He's older than you," Yuta points out. "He's a whole year older than you, you got no business calling him a kid."

Chenle looks offended. Lucas busies himself with his fries, and he only looks up when Johnny lets out a laugh that sounds like a storm. "Anyway--" Chenle continues. "I told him he could hang out with Doyoung and Jaehyun next week."

"I didn't agree to this," says the pink-haired man across the booth. He can fly anything, Lucas learned, even mechanical wings. He's  _ dying _ to see it. "He's a hyperactive itsy bitsy spider who needs a lot of attention and we can't give him attention when we're busy shooting villains. He's not even legal yet!"

Doyoung makes a sound. "I agreed to this. I  _ adore _ Jeno Lee and I would  _ happily _ welcome him into the Avengers in the future, as he's fully capable of..."

Later, then, when Lucas's already been "approved" by Johnny with a god's slap on his back and leaves the diner with a steak to go because he's apparently too skinny and needs to eat better and perhaps go to Asgard someday (he wonders if it's near Brooklyn) and learn what good food and beer is, Doyoung's hand shyly brushes his when they're walking back alone to the Avengers towers, and Lucas's heart catapults itself out of his chest.

"I know they're a little too much," he whispers quietly. "But they're good people."

"I liked them," Lucas replies wholeheartedly. "I'm glad they take care of you."

Doyoung frowns, maybe a little offended, maybe just a little flustered, and he motions to get the bag from Lucas's hand. "I don't need to be taken care of," he replies. "Not anymore."

That's true. Lucas knows it. In a moment of courage, he reaches for Doyoung's free hand and takes it in his. None of them say anything.

It takes him a while, but Lucas gets there. 

He has trouble sleeping, still, and sometimes he slips out of the bedroom when Doyoung falls asleep to sit on the couch until the sun rises, watching it paint the sky beautiful colors, and then he feeds the cat, and he opens his e-something to check the pictures Chenle sends to him weekly. It's been a while since they've seen the Avengers – except for Sicheng, who drops by constantly to steal all of Lucas's cereal before he's off to kick people's asses in secret missions –, but it is very peaceful here on this farm. Lucas likes it. It takes him a while, but he gets there.

"This is so old people culture," Doyoung tells him when they're having coffee at the table outside. Lucas frowns when he looks up from his newspaper. "It means-- it's cool, young people language. Jeno taught me. Us having coffee in this place is old people culture."

"I see," Lucas chuckles. He reaches for the bread but Doyoung takes his hand absentmindedly, eyes still on his newspaper, and Lucas rubs a thumb over his knuckles the way he used to do when Doyoung caught pneumonia for the nth time or something like that. "Friendly reminder--" and he laughs, Chenle's voice echoing in his mind with the expression. "That you're still older than me, though."

Doyoung slaps his hand. "Jerk."

"Punk," he replies fondly. And Doyoung gently pats his hand before pulling it to his mouth, pressing a--

He doesn't need a memory, or a line in his journal, or anything else. Lucas's heart tells him he'd follow that boy from Brooklyn into war, into saving the world, into morning activities of feeding the goats and all. "I'd follow you anywhere," he tells him, and Doyoung looks at him funny from where he's crouched down, tying his worn-out shoes. He doesn't need newspapers anywhere. 

"And why is that?"

Lucas shrugs. It comes easy out of him, he doesn't know where from, but he's got an idea: "'Cause I'm with you 'till the end of the line, Doie."

**Author's Note:**

> this was a bit wild because of the self indulgence and all. don't forget to leave kudos and let me know what you thought, though!!
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/morktwt)  
> [ccat](https://curiouscat.me/nctqueer)


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